


The Cottage, the Tailor

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: The Cottage, the Husbands [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Other, POV Outsider, Tailoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 18:50:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19932841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: Self Indulgent Fluff the...6th: Twelve is a tailor to the eclectic and elite.  When a new client calls to suddenly cancel but the bell rings above the door anyway, Twelve knows exactly who it's going to be: Anthony J. Crowley, client and drama queen.  She's delighted to find that this time he has Anthony's Angel along as well, even if they are asking for a favor.This one does somewhat require having read "His Darling" and "The Bake Sale" to fully make sense.





	The Cottage, the Tailor

**Author's Note:**

> These are my "take a break" fluffs while working. Keeps the creative brain squeaking along.

Twelve knew before he arrived that Anthony would be in that day. Not because he made an appointment – he never did, the lovable ass – but because a poor soul who had made an appointment eight months in advance suddenly called to cancel due to kidney stones, and within seconds the front door jangled as someone came in anyway.

It never failed, and she didn’t know how Anthony managed it, but she wasn’t going to question. She was fond of Anthony, who had absolutely no taste of his own but endearingly thought he did, was incredibly predictable when it came to color palette but unpredictable when it came to gender presentation, walked like every street was a catwalk that was, for some unknown reason, rolling, and never quibbled over prices. 

Since she already knew he’d be there, she was able to answer his friendly bellow with a suitably dramatic, “Antony!” as she swept from the secretly crowded sewing room into her expansive front show room. When she saw that he wasn’t alone, she lit up. “Oh! And your Angel as well!” she smiled, stepping forward to clasp Anthony’s dear Angel’s hand and press a kiss to it. 

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said, flustered but smiling. Anthony glared daggers through his designer sunglasses (ordered in bulk through her shop, of course). She blew him a deep red kiss. “It is lovely to see you again, Ms Twelve.” 

“Same!” Twelve slipped her arm through his and, ignoring Anthony’s enraged stuttering, led him to the small kitchenette. “I had no idea you were coming, darling, or I would have the kettle on already.”

From behind her came the enraged mutter of, “Secret meetings!” from Anthony that made her quite pleased. It was his own fault, she felt, for keeping his “Angel” hidden away for so long.

Twelve had heard about “Angel” for more than a decade before he finally came to see her himself, though Anthony had talked about him more or less incessantly (“Angel wants to go see _Love Never Dies_ but I put my foot down, it’s in Coney Island for hell’s sake!” or “Have to run in half an hour, meeting Angel at some new frou frou French place he’s found” or “Angel talked about one type of sconce for a solid thirty-one minutes, I timed it, and he still hadn’t finished one slice of cake”). She had, in fact, rather thought Angel was his actual name, and had been mildly disappointed by his self-introductory “Mr. Fell” until, into their third cup of delicious tea, he had admitted that his actual given name was “Aziraphael.” That was almost as wonderfully ridiculous as being Angel (and, as hers was Sapphire Wanette, she knew of what she spoke; she had been Twelve since college and would remain so forever, her birth name hidden from the universe). 

“He’s not the only one here, you know,” Anthony said acerbically as Anthony’s Angel (she just couldn’t break the habit of thinking of him this way, and it suited him so well) handed her a lovely tin of lavender earl gray (“You’ll need it after dealing with Crowley,” he murmured, and she whispered agreement) and she set the kettle on. 

“I am aware, Antony.” She held a hand out to him, palm down, with a devilish wink. He sent it a nasty look. She laughed. “But it is ever so much fun to tease you. What brings both of you here together for once?” She looked Anthony over: a mess of mismatched genders and styles on a body that could best be likened to a string bean, but he made it work. It was only then that she noticed the glittering pin on his lapel: He/Him/Hellion. Nice. Suited him. She hoped he had She/Her/Shithead for his other days, because that’s exactly what he was. “Did the clothes your angel pick up for you work out?” 

This was a test, because he was, in fact, wearing the lovely black and silver blouse she’d sent, all soft silk underneath a crisp black suit coat and offset by, rather to her surprise, white opals glinting from his ears. That must be his angel’s influence. 

Anthony waved a hand, but the edge of his mouth lifted into a hint of a smile. “Always, you know that.”

Aziraphale was more effusive with his praise: “Crowley looked beautiful! Everyone in town noticed, and she made,” here a very mischievous look came into his eyes, “some lovely friends.”

Anthony drew himself up into one of the stools at the small counter, too many angles as always. It was darling how he fit beside his angel, who was soft curves and wicked little smiles. “They’re not friends, Angel. They’re four brats who invited themselves over, completely uninvited, for tea at a stranger’s house. It’s bad parenting, is what it is.”

Aziraphale tsked. “You’re not a stranger. They know perfectly well who we both are, and they’re rather adorable.” The fondness in his expression actually made Twelve’s chest ache, and Anthony’s was, if possible, even soppier. No wonder he didn’t make public appearances with his angel; it would ruin his reputation immediately. “Besides, they were polite enough to bring biscuits, which is more than most invited guests do.”

Anthony actually gave his head a little shake, as if reminding himself to reenter the real world from the one he and his Angel inhabited. “As to why we’re here,” he said, returning his attention to Twelve, “it’s two fold. First, this one,” Anthony turned a thumb in his angel’s direction, “needs some properly tailored trousers-”

“I told you mine are just fine, dear-”

Anthony just kept speaking, which was fair. Those trousers were an embarrassment, and something had to be done about them, “And we have a friend joining us who needs a dress.”

Twelve raised a dangerous eyebrow. The kettle sang and Anthony’s Angel, clearly deciding to get out of the line of fire, muttered under his breath about being mother and disappeared around to start the tea steeping. “I do not take walk-ins, Antony.”

“I’m not a walk in!”

“But your friend is! Do you think I have time just sitting around, waiting to be filled by your friends and acquaintances? It’s one thing for your angel to come in here-”

“I did tell you my name is Aziraphale, I believe.”

“-Being adorable and a gentleman to make up for your _many_ failings and to pick up clothes for _you_ , whose measurements I have memorized, but I am _not_ some corner _boutique_ where you bring all your girl friends to get dresses!”

“First, she isn’t my girl friend, we don’t know each other that well-”

“Pish posh,” Angel said, and this did stop the conversation as both Twelve and Anthony needed a moment to look at the actual person who had used the words “pish posh” without a trace of irony, “you’re very fond of Anathema. The two of you talk witchcraft and occult quite happily, and she found those glasses that help you focus when you’re reading.”

Twelve’s eyes widened. “You have _glasses_?” she demanded, turning on Anthony. “Which you haven’t cleared with _me_?”

“They’re only for reading,” Anthony muttered. “He’s the only one who sees them.”

“Which means they should be even _more_ devastating! I am so sorry, darling, that he isn’t putting in the proper effort to grab your attention at home.” She patted Angel’s hand.

Angel blinked at her. “Ah . . . that’s . . . not really a problem?” he hazarded, but she just shook her head sadly. “Crowley is always lovely. He has a good heart-yes I know dear," he added when Anthony's mouth opened to argue. “Though you’ve never had the chance to see him with his hair long! It curls _beautifully_. Just breathtaking.” 

“ _Second_ ,” and here Anthony’s hand found its way on top of the patted angelic hand and stole it possessively, “she’s a witch with a certain aesthetic who refuses to wear white at her wedding. You’re going to love it.”

Anthony’s Angel handed Twelve a cup of tea with just the merest hint of honey, as she personally believed God intended. She glared at Anthony over it. “I had better,” she said.

“You will. Thanks, Angel.” He turned all tender again when his angel handed him his tea. It was nauseatingly domestic. The angel in question circled around and, rather than hopping back on one of the stools, leaned very happily against Anthony’s side. “Really, she’s got this look, sort of Victorian meets weird lace shirts. You’ll like her. And she won’t want anything over the top. It’s an outdoor wedding at her cottage, small.” 

“The dress is our wedding gift to her,” the angel said, and then he turned the prettiest pair of eyes Twelve had seen in her entire life on her. He turned them on her and he _used them_ and oh he was a sneaky little bastard but she felt herself falling for it. “I do hope you’ll agree to make her dress. I know you’ll design something to suit her perfectly. Every time I see Crowley in something you created, it just takes my breath away. And isn’t that what everyone wants for their wedding day?”

Anthony beamed at her, positively proud of this manipulative creature tucked under his arm. She sighed. Damn her for a romantic. “Fine. But I get to dress both of you when you get around to asking Antony to marry you and he agrees.”

Anthony coughed painfully on his tea. His Angel turned a bit pink. Good.

He deserved it. (Even if, when Anathema Device came in wearing her long skirt and Victorian coat and lace and messy hair and glasses, Twelve _knew_ they were going to get along just fine and create something unique and beautiful together. Anthony still deserved it. And so did his Angel, come to think of it.)

**Author's Note:**

> Note the First: BTW, her name is Twelve because on a scale of 1-10, she's a 12.  
> Note the Second: Consider it canon in this series that Aziraphale can purposefully manipulate the color of his eyes to con people into doing what he wants, because I'm rererereading the book and you know that little shit does.


End file.
